


Taking Care

by Mice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post TFP, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:52:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: Greg takes Mycroft home after a traumatic night.





	

It was miserably late at night when Mycroft's helicopter landed. Greg stood in the whipping wind from the props, his coat flapping wildly as he watched Mycroft step out onto the tarmac. The lights were harsh and Mycroft's face was in shadow as he ducked the still moving blades. He wasn't wearing a coat, for reasons Greg couldn't begin to fathom. The ubiquitous umbrella was missing as well. 

When Mycroft looked up, his brows rose and his eyes widened slightly, but he quickly repressed his surprise. Greg hurried forward to meet him, putting a hand on his arm. "I've come to take you home," he shouted, over the sound of the helicopter. Mycroft's arm was freezing as Greg led him to the car that had been sent for them. "Why don't you have a coat?" He shrugged out of his own and wrapped it around Mycroft's shoulders as they moved.

Mycroft shook his head but tugged Greg's coat around himself, shivering.

Greg looked him over as best he could in the shifting light as they walked, opening the door for Mycroft when they got to the car, and steadying him as he got inside. Mycroft had sounded badly shaken on the phone but, face to face, the man looked gutted. His entire body seemed bent under the weight of trauma, the very picture of someone shattered but desperately holding together by will alone.

The driver already had the car running when they arrived, the passenger compartment warm behind its privacy screen, and Greg buckled in then looked over to make sure Mycroft was secure as the vehicle began to move. "I expected Andrea," Mycroft said, his voice quiet and still shaky.

"She told me a little about what happened out there, about what led up to it." Greg reached out and laid a hand on top of Mycroft's cold, slender fingers, hoping to warm him a little. Mycroft blinked a couple of times and looked up at him before hesitantly turning his hand and taking Greg's offer of warmth and human contact. "Sherlock told me a little more, but not a lot. He had other things on his mind."

Mycroft nodded. "Of course."

"You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to, but if you need to talk, I'm right here. You know nothing will go any further."

"I appreciate your coming to meet me, but I don't…" Mycroft's voice cracked and he fell silent.

Greg squeezed his hand. "It's okay," he whispered. "You're safe, Mycroft. Whatever hell you went through out there, it's over now."

It was twenty minutes before Mycroft spoke again. Greg simply waited, silent, beside him and held his hand. "I didn't expect to walk away from it," Mycroft said, his voice slightly steadier than it had been, but not by much. He stared out the window as he spoke. "She intended for me to die there. For all of us to die, I'm sure. But she'd put us in a room together and gave Sherlock the choice to kill one of us -- me, or John." He drew a shuddering breath. "I goaded him. I know Sherlock has never… I wanted to give him an excuse to hate me, so he wouldn't feel guilty when he pulled the trigger."

Greg went cold all over. "He doesn't hate you," he murmured. 

"I know. I didn't know that in the moment. When he put the gun to his own head, I panicked. She stopped him. She had… other games to play." Mycroft turned his face toward Greg, naked devastation in his eyes. 

"Christ, that's…" Greg shifted, got himself out of his seat belt, and tucked an arm around Mycroft's shoulders. Mycroft didn't pull away, but buried his face in Greg's shoulder and clung to him. Greg gave in to it and held him, resting his chin on the top of Mycroft's head, eyes closed. He could feel Mycroft trembling. "You're safe," he whispered. "I've got you. You're going to be okay."

Mycroft nodded against Greg's shoulder and took a deep breath, then started to talk. His voice was muffled, but it was like watching all the dikes in Holland collapsing, the story coming in a flood of absolute horror. Greg listened for the better part of an hour to Mycroft talking about the night before, with Sherlock and John breaking into his home and terrifying him, about Moriarty and five bloody minutes unsupervised, about how sickened Mycroft was by the idea of killing an innocent man. About the murder of Victor Trevor and the burning of Mycroft's childhood home. About the burden Mycroft had borne since he was far too young to be making decisions about the life and ostensible death of his criminally insane sister, and his worries for Sherlock, and the blame his parents continually assigned him for not looking after his brother properly. The facts came in a shocking flood and Greg could do nothing but hold him and bear silent, tearful witness to Mycroft's agony.

Finally, Mycroft stumbled to a stop, exhausted, apologizing and blaming himself for everything. Greg's heart was torn open, aching for the man who sat, shaking, in his arms. He cupped Mycroft's cheek in one palm and raised his face, resting his forehead against Mycroft's, looking him in the eyes from that impossibly close place. "You don't need to apologize to me," he whispered. "You are not alone. You don't have to be alone. You don't have to bear this alone."

Mycroft closed his eyes against Greg's gaze. "But--"

"No buts." Greg sniffled and blinked away some of his tears. "I'm here, Mycroft. Let me be here for you. Let me help you. You need someone; you need a friend."

"I've never had a friend," Mycroft whispered.

Greg's heart twisted at the pain in Mycroft's words. "You have me, if you want me. I've always been here for you, haven't I? Through everything, no matter what. I've always been here. You've always been able to rely on me."

Mycroft moved back a few inches and looked at Greg. He swallowed and nodded. "You have. Even when I've treated you abominably. In the end, you were the one person I could always trust." He reached up and wiped at the tears on Greg's cheek. "But I don't understand. Why are you crying?"

"Because I care about you, and you're in so much pain. I just want it to stop. I want to help, Mycroft. Please, let me help."

"It's… hard for me," Mycroft said. "Accepting anything from anyone."

"I know. But you have to start somewhere." Mycroft looked down and mumbled something that Greg didn't catch. "Sorry, I couldn't hear you."

He cleared his throat and spoke a little more clearly. "I said that I… I would want too much from you. That I would want more than… more than friendship." Mycroft shook his head. "I can't ask that of you, Greg. I can't compromise the kindness, the generosity of your offer."

Greg sat in silent shock for a moment, processing what he'd heard. Mycroft said nothing, didn't look up at him. "I never knew you were even interested," Greg said.

"You were married. I knew you weren't entirely straight, but… well, you were Sherlock's friend. I treated you like an employee. There was nothing at all there for me but an impossible fantasy. I should never have said anything. I've ruined it now. I'm terrible at this. Sentiment. Being human."

"No, you've just surprised me is all." Greg took a deep breath and sighed it out. "Truth is, I'd like that, when you're doing better. Right now, it would just feel like taking advantage of the trauma you've been through. You need support, Mycroft. I'd be honoured to give you anything at all you need, but I want us both to be sure that this isn't just the trauma talking."

"Saying it aloud is doubtless the result of the horrifying experience I've had, but the… the underlying wish has been there for a very long time. You're a far better man than I deserve."

"No," Greg whispered. They came together again, holding each other as the car drew near to Mycroft's flat. "You deserve better than I could ever hope to give you, but I'll try."

"Would you come in with me?" Mycroft asked. "I'm not asking you to sleep with me. I just… I don't think I could bear being alone tonight."

"I understand. Yeah. I'd be happy to. It's okay, Mycroft. I'll take care of you." Greg nuzzled Mycroft's hair for a moment, then wiped his own eyes with his cuff. "I think we could both really use a cup of tea, yeah?" 

Mycroft responded with a shaky chuckle. "Most likely, yes, though we'll have to order it in. There's nothing in the kitchen."

Greg shook his head in disbelief. "You really do need someone to take care of you."

"As long as it's you," Mycroft whispered, "I don't think I'll mind."


End file.
